Saturation
by rcsebalm
Summary: A requested continuation of 'Shut Up and Dance'. You've been avoiding John after that particular night at The Garrison, embarrassment of your behaviour has forced you into a corner, and John wants answers. (John Shelby x Reader).


**SATURATION**  
 _moonlustre_

 _Prompt: "You have no idea what you do to me."_

* * *

Your sweet morning greetings were swift like the cool, autumn breeze outside, the response from the small plethora of people you called your peers just as pleasant, and you peeled away your fur-trim coat and hat, hanging them on green hooks against the nearest brick wall. Every day a bit more chrome poked through the patchy paintwork on the hooks, flecks of emerald flaking off onto your beige coat that you only half-heartedly dusted off before stepping to the centre of the gambling den and taking your seat. The desk was as you'd left it the night before, paperwork and betting slips neatly aligned, pens and pencils lay a fingernail's length away from where you placed your dominant hand like clockwork. You wasted no time getting to work, organising yourself for the morning rush, checking odds once and then twice. And then in he walked.

It was once normal for you to bump into John on your way to the betting shop. He'd greet you with a smile and, if he had borrowed the family car the night before, he'd offer you a lift. But you'd made it your prerogative to avoid such events as best you could after that night, embarrassment rising to your cheeks like steam whenever the memory dared cross your thoughts, and John's face forced that recollection regularly. Unable to keep things professional between you and the man who was essentially your boss, you'd toyed with the idea of resigning—finding work elsewhere, but no company paid as well as Shelby Company Limited. Thus you resigned yourself to simply avoiding the second youngest Shelby altogether.

It was quite the task.

You'd arrived earlier than normal enough now to deem six-thirty your new seven, and as the clock chimed ten past, John stepped into the shop and shed his coat with a loud, boyish greeting belting from his throat, his arms outstretched to almost announce himself. His voice wasn't needed; he held himself so highly even King George V himself couldn't miss him. You dipped your head down, eyes glued to the desk and you furiously began to scribble across your paperwork.

His steps were heavy on the worn floorboards and they'd begun to slow as they came nearer to your little spot on the precipice of what you'd nicknamed No Man's Land. John's office was enemy territory. That's what you'd tried to train yourself to think, at any rate. He fell short just a few inches from the edge of your desk and you refused to look up, desperately pretending that you hadn't realised he was there.

"Morning," his voice was still laced with morning huskiness. You trembled slightly as he spoke your name and you squeezed your eyes shut. Every day you'd told yourself to simply say hello and continue your work. No eye contact necessary. Yet every day you'd disobeyed the cricket on your shoulder, and today was no different.

You raised your head, flicking away a few strands of your hair, and your eyes locked onto his. "Good morning, Mr Shelby." How can a man's eyes be so intense? They weren't piercing like Tommy's or warm like Arthur's, but there was something about the deep, clear blue that was so inviting, like a siren tempting sailors to their deaths. Your breath hitched when his lips pursed, and he rested his hands in front on him, clamped together in that authoritarian stance you'd grown so accustomed—and attracted—to, and you, feeling small and meek, fidgeted under his leer.

"John," Polly's voice was sharp from his office, her mop of curls swinging in the air as her head craned out of the doorway. You took this opportunity to snap your focus back to your paperwork, while John's flitted between Polly and you as if he had something else to say. _Leave, leave, leave._ You repeated in your head, feeling as though you were about to spontaneously combust at any moment.

He hummed and finally his footsteps resumed, fading away into the quiet of his office. It was only until after Polly shut the door that you found yourself relaxing enough to feel like a puddle. The chair beneath you squealed as you threw yourself back and pushed out a drawn out sigh, dragging the rough tips of your fingers over your eyes. Arthur's voice roared through your ears as he swung himself towards the door to the betting shop, his figure enveloped in the shroud of cigarette smoke, and with one swift motion the day's customers poured into the small room.

Throughout the day, you'd caught John stealing glances your way from the comfort of his office, usually from behind a newspaper and a cup of tea, and you'd done your best to ignore it as you scribbled down bets and organised cash. Occasionally he'd leave his corner to speak to Polly or Arthur or Tommy, and each time he'd purposely graze his fingers along your desk, your eyes following their streamlined movement before you reached over to take a bet from some either disgruntled or drunk customer. But while you gave an appearance of holding yourself together, inside you were a sand castle, and John was the sea. With every passing step you soaked him up until you were crumbling—his scent was intoxicating, an aroma of cigar smoke and whiskey, and while many, if not all, of the Peaky Blinders followed those particular habits, there was something unique to John that you couldn't quite press, something that irked you and enthralled you all at once, and sent you into a spiral should you close your eyes and breathe him in for too long.

Your hands had eventually given up the will to keep their selves together and had begun to shake and your mouth had run dry. John passed you again, returning to his office, the fact that he'd swiped your favourite pencil did not escape your notice, and you couldn't hold yourself together anymore. You waited, for what felt the longest minute of your life, until he sat himself back down at his desk, lifting his feet up to rest on a pile of papers, and that's when you stood.

You briefly rested your palm on Scudboat's shoulder. "I'm taking my break," you announced and briskly walked to John's home away from home. You tapped your knuckles lightly against the glass pane door and waited. Another eternity passed until a mumbled voice beckoned you inside.

A string of smoke propelled into the air from the end of a cigar implanted between John's lips, and a half empty cup of tea sat next to a simple phone black in colour with a golden trim. His desk was a mess, but, to him, it was organised chaos. Placed snugly in the gap between his head and ear sat your pencil.

John didn't look up from his newspaper as your black shoes clicked against the floorboards, and you softly closed the door behind you.

"Well what d'you want?" He said, his voice stern but not sharp, as though he was fed up. You tangled your fingers together for a moment to collect your thoughts before clearing your throat, and you put on your best facade of confidence.

"I'd like my pencil back please." Despite yourself, your voice wavered slightly. Whether John had picked it up or not, you couldn't say, but he let out a single breathy chuckle and folded up the newspaper, slinging it to one side carelessly. He laced his fingers together and rested them on his stomach, staring straight at you with a smirk.

Your facade was already starting to crack. "I'd like an explanation." He raised his brows slightly while yours furrowed. "Why've you been avoiding me?" You pressed your teeth into your bottom lip and dipped your head to the side, glancing between the floor and the nearest filing cabinet.

"I'm not." Your cheeks began to flare and you started to fiddle with the material of your skirt as John rose from his chair and left a huff in the air.

Your boss had no reservations of closing the gap between your bodies until you were mere inches apart, removing the cigar from his mouth to perch it between his fingers. "Ever since that night at The Garrison, you've barely even looked at me."

He tried to turn your eyes back to him, but you kept your head down until he feathered his fingers over your chin, gently but strictly forcing you to look at him. "I..." You whimpered. You didn't want to say. You couldn't. But John's gaze above you was intense, like the summer sun of July, and you were beginning to melt in his grip. "You have no idea what you do to me." It was a mumble, a mere whisper but you knew John heard it as a smug grin tugged at his lips.

The red hue across your cheeks only deepened further until you were a tomato.

John chuckled and you felt yourself shrink. This embarrassment was humiliating—oh, why did you not look for a new job? You were so a flush and engulfed in your nerve-wracked thoughts that you did not register a soft kiss brush across your lips until it was gone just as swift.

"And you have no idea how long I've wanted to kiss you." With that, John pulled away from you to lean against his desk, palms embedded into the wooden furniture with a knowing smirk, as if the sentence he'd spoke was entirely normal.

Needless to say you were speechless, leaning against the wall to keep yourself standing. "John..."

A knock on the glass pane window startled you. "John, Tommy needs to see you." Polly instructed after opening the door just wide enough to let herself in.

The younger Shelby brother chewed on the corner of his bottom lip and directed his attention from Polly to the floor, clearly irritated. "Yeah." Polly didn't stay, the click of her heels against the wooden floorboards fading away with an authoritarian rhythm. With a newfound slump, John stuffed his hands in his pockets after discarding the cigar in the glass ashtray behind him. One last time he pressed himself against you, chest to chest. "The Garrison, tonight."

With that, he left, leaving the door opened behind him for you to exit. You shuddered, a cocktail of nerves and excitement sending you into a buzz that set your eyes alight with a lovesick gleam, and the tap of your shoes mirrored such a feeling as you made your way back to your desk, a bashful but beaming grin on your face and your skin still saturated red.

It was then that you realised you still hadn't retrieved your pencil from the mischievous boy.

* * *

 _Apologies that it took this long to write, it was never my intention to take this long. A big thank you to everyone who requested this!_


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